In Flames
by arkenstonn
Summary: Alexandria, 48 BC. Aziraphale has just been named head librarian after years of hard labour. While the civil war opposing Caesar's and Pompey's forces rages in the distance, he peacefully studies the new documents that are brought to him. But when Crowley himself delivers him a mysterious scroll, the poor angel feels that his luck may be on point to change for the worse.
1. The place of the cure of the soul

Note:

_Based on a headcanon that has already been adapted into plenty of fics and comics, but I wanted to give a try to my own version of it._

_I would like to point out that the circumstances of the destruction of the library are still debated today and that there is not unanimous support for the hypothesis that it would result from the conflict between Caesar and Pompey. Even though I am a big ancient history nerd, I don't want this story to arouse any kind of conflict about the veracity of the facts it's based upon._

_Please note that English is not my first language and that I am deeply sorry for all the mistakes that may remain._

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**Chapter 1:**

**The place of the cure of the soul**

_The place of the cure of the soul_.

Aziraphale could not have found more correct words to define the spiritual grandeur of this building. His fingers run along the engraving and his ring scratches the corner of the shelf. Around, only the faint chirp of the birds dozing in the gardens, the crystalline flow of the fountain and the rustling of the forsaken papyruses which catch the breeze of the late evening. These scrolls abandoned by the last visitors that are just waiting to be opened again so to share their words, to spread their ink in the veins of the reader. These sacred texts which persist through both faithful and apocryphal copies, which invite to converse, to reflect, to progress. This unique legacy of the findings and discoveries of scholars providing the basis for the education of their successors. Pages and pages of calculations and theories to fill ignorance. Warm poems and catchy songs to erase torments and warm up injured hearts. Indeed. What could be better than a library to heal one's soul from all its sorrows.

Today, Aziraphale enbarks upon his second month as the head librarian of the great Library of Alexandria. As far as he can remember, and God knows it goes back a long time, he has never enjoyed working so much (and has never really worked). For him, wandering between the columns and getting lost in this labyrinth made of shelves is not the chore that some of his predecessors have described: much more than a real pleasure, it is a vocation. At times of low visits, which are becoming increasingly rare, he likes to dig for new manuscripts and lock himself in his office to discover them, study them, sometimes make copies when the paper is deteriorated and despite the army of scribes at his disposal.

Some claim that he does not have the temper to be a librarian worthy of the name, but his most fervent defenders constantly evoke his passion for reading which, according to them, is more than enough to make him fit for the task. No one else could perpetuate the desire of the Ptolemies to make this library a real institution, a collection of all arts and sciences. Aziraphale's thirst for knowledge is so deep and intense that he strives to establish an aggressive policy of purchasing books in order to extend the library collections to all the subjects known to date. He would not hesitate to reach into his own pocket to finance some allegedly impossible purchases. As soon as the name of a new author appears, Zira hastens to dispatch royal agents to collect the texts according to an extremely precise procedure or to write copies as faithful as possible. When public book sales are organized, he goes there in person and often leaves with nearly all of the goods. He also has no qualms about doing a few miracles to recover documents that are particularly difficult to obtain, which has already earned him a call to order to work in favor of interests seen as "too futile" by his superiors. "Futile". Certainly, he could have refrained from snapping his fingers to restore these Homeric poems destroyed during a shipwreck. The library already had them, after all. But Homeric poems… impossible to let them sink.

Despite the undisputed role of his dear library in the sharing of knowledge, Aziraphale cannot help but feel a constant fear regarding the rival institution established in Pergamum. Since it appeared, scholars in Alexandria have been plagued by counterfeiters' organizations who are trying by all means to sell their fake copies. The kind of apocryphal writings that Aziraphale vowed never to enter the walls of the library while he remains its head librarian. He has exhausted his eyes on these so-called poems so often, studying the usual lexicon, comparing the copies by dozens to assess their authenticity... to finally return them to their owners with the risk of having made a misjudgement and indirectly offer the precious texts to their rivals from Pergamum. It is high time, moreover, to conduct a campaign of seduction of scientists in order to prevent them from continuing to flee to Pergamum. Not all of them have the calibre of the famous Aristophanes of Byzantium who refused to settle in Pergamum despite multiple invitations from Eumenes II! And anyway, that damned library will never have the stature of that of Alexandria. Never. Aziraphale is ready to do anything to prevent it. Whispering in Ptolemy V's ear that it would be wise to ban the export of papyrus to Pergamum was just a small miracle among many others.

Aziraphale steps down from the ladder and places it back against the column. He dusts his white toga and lets out a frustrated sigh when seeing a thin cloud of particles rise in front of him. Wasn't he clear enough about the cleaning and the accumulation of dust on the shelves? He should have a quick word with Nephi about all that. Again. He sneaks a peek in the meeting room which has already regurgitated the fifteen or so philosophers who had settled there for the day. He sometimes likes to distract and listen to them through the walls, too shy to dare impose his presence and his ignorance on these great geniuses whose writings he dissects and savours. Blessed are these men freed from the burdens of everyday life, exempt from taxes, with free room, board and laundry so that they can devote all of their time to intellectual stimulation. Aziraphale crosses the reading room with a light, almost perky step, making sure that the last consulted scrolls have been put back in their place and not left upon the tables or the couches like too many young visitors like to do. He greets his late colleagues with discreet wavins or simple nods, his cheeks turning to pink in front of this respect which is granted to him a little more every day because of his growing reputation. Ten years ago, he was just a simple stranger meandering between the shelves and taking advantage of the setting sun to appreciate the calm of the galleries. Today, he is the almost undisputed lord of this place. He walks the promenade overlooking the conference room and the refectory to finally reach his office, his lair, his home. This place cut off from the world in which he hides the documents on which he intends to work personally without delegating the task to anyone. How many manuscripts did he steal from the shelves on the ground floor after dark? How many texts has he stuffed under his toga? Oh, he doesn't keep them forever, just long enough to make personal copies - or unofficial copies that he returns in place of the originals. God wouldn't hold it against him, would she? She would understand... she would most certainly understand... After all, if these are really "futile" concerns, his little maneuvers will not cause great ills...

"Mister the head librarian, what a pleasure to meet you at last!"

The angel jumps and lets out a little shout. This slightly hoarse and nasal voice... this mocking intonation, this sarcasm oozing from each word... Aziraphale would recognize them among a thousand.

"Crawly! Crowley! What are you doing here?" he exclaims, raising a hand to his chest to feign outrage. "How dare you defile this temple with your… dirty… buskins!"

"Oh, you tell me, angel."

The demon leans against the doorframe, a mocking smile floating on his face. Cursed be that jeering and insolent expression that he dares to wear whenever he catches his old friend unaware! Aziraphale can easily imagine his golden eyes twinkling behind the opacity of his glasses. It's been such a long time that he hasn't had the pleasure of observing them… after all, apart from the charming specificity of these eyes, isn't it unpleasant to talk to an interlocutor whose gaze cannot be followed?

"Oh, please, don't tell me that you smoothed the way for the Romans? Are you responsible for this dreadful war?"

"The current political intrigues are a little too complex for my taste."

"They can only result from the work of a harmful creature."

"That's what I thought. Gabriel must have sticked his oar in this affair."

The ginger tilts his head to the side and his thin lips stretch into a mysterious smile. Aziraphale may well appreciate this arrogant idiot after all the adventures they went through together, he begins to understand that the presence of his comrade in the vicinity is always prophetic of bad omens. Fortunately, his manuscripts are safe.

"So?" he continues, trying in vain to put up a front, squaring his shoulders and raising his chin. "Why were you looking for me? Some sin to confess?"

"I was simply struck by the sudden impulse to take a short cruise to come and sow chaos in this city that everyone adores."

"Out of the question! I will not let you…!"

Crowley gives him an oblique look behind the tinted lenses of his glasses. Has he ever really been behind a single crime since the creation of the world? Aziraphale's blunders caused far more misfortune than his own deliberate misdeeds.

"To be completely honest, I just wanted to get closer to the epicenter of the action to make sure the situation didn't escalate."

"It didn't wait for you to escalate, my dear!"

"Then why don't you intervene? A small angelic miracle could save many lives."

Aziraphale's jaw drops several times, his lips pursing slightly without a word escaping from his throat. Is this a trap? Yet another mockery? Crowley must have been made aware of the admonitions expressed against his poor little angel. Does he dare think that he can take advantage of this to put the city to fire and the sword?

"Well... it's all part of the Great Plan. I would never dare to interfere with the Almighty's goals, but you, on the other hand…"

"And all the manuscripts that should have ended up at the bottom of the sea? They weren't part of the Plan, right?"

Crowley sneers at the confused pout Aziraphale displays. The poor blond has always been unable to take important decisions. A weakness that makes him absolutely adorable.

"Anyway, a bunch of soldiers stopped me when I reached the port", Crowley continues, walking around the office to then slump into his friend's chair. "I was rather surprised when they asked me to bring you all the books on board. I didn't know that you changed your career path to theft?"

"Oh, Crowley, come on!" the angel protests, clapping his hands. "It's not theft! It's for the common good, for posterity!"

"Seize someone's property without considering returning it?" Crowley responds, throwing his long legs over the desk and ignoring the indignant exclamation of his friend. "What do you call that if not theft?"

"It's not... it's not exactly theft. In fact, we make copies of the seized texts which we then give to the owners."

"The initial version is therefore stolen."

"Well…"

"No, no tirade on the legitimacy of your intentions, please. Just send your damn scribes to the port and collect the paperwork."

A fleeting smile flashes on Aziraphale's lips at the idea of introducing new documents into his collections. Fortune has not smiled much upon him recently: too many duplicates, too few new authors or unpublished works.

"What kind of documents did you bring?" he asks in a soft voice to conceal - unsuccessfully - his excitement.

"Do you really think I bothered to read them?"

"A little culture doesn't hurt anyone. Besides, you should tr-…"

"I was too busy pissing off fishermen and soldiers. And the fishes. And the ducks."

Aziraphale fidgets for a moment before he rushes out of his office and hails the scribes still at the ready to dispatch them to the port. Blessed be this wonderful decree authorizing to seize the books of the mooring ships!

"While we're at it, I want to congratulate you for becoming the new librarian", Crowley sighs, standing up, ready to go now that his mission is accomplished. "I think... well, you... yeah. It's nice."

"Oh, Crowley…"

Aziraphale shakes his head, his eyes half closed as the compliment rings in his ears. He would be lying if he claimed he hadn't thought of Crowley since their last encounter one year earlier, during the Senate meeting which summoned Caesar to surrender his power. Crowley may not be an angel, but he has used more than one occasion to show his kindness and let the true color of his soul shine through. If Aziraphale knows full well that they are doomed to remain enemies by their nature, he cannot help but feel some affection for this poor demon who looks nothing like his fellows. Basically, he's a nice boy. And Aziraphale always knew it, whether Crowley tried to deny it or not.

"Thank you", he whispers, his cheeks pink with emotion. "It's very touching of you."

"Stop it right now."

"I have to say that I didn't expect you t-…"

"I think I'm going to burn a ship."

"Not before you entrusted its books to me!"

Crowley cracks a grimace and turns away, taking the way out with his ridiculous swaying gait. Aziraphale watches him go, his eyes sparkling with unparalleled joy. He cannot say what pleased him most: Crowley coming to Alexandria, the prospect of finding unpublished manuscripts, or these brief congratulations?

He gently shakes his shoulders to regain his senses and comes back behind his desk while knowing full well that he will be unable to focus on anything after this unexpected meeting. If only Crowley was interested in culture, Aziraphale would be happy to invite him for a walk in the meanders of the library. He who loves plants so much could have enjoyed a nap in the garden.

* * *

_Thanks for reading!_

_If you enjoyed, please consider supporting me on Ko-fi so I can keep on writing more smutty s*** for all of you, foul fiends!_  
_Special thanks to my ineffable girlfriend for the amazing cover she made for this story!_

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_We are self-employed artists so any tip helps! :D_


	2. Bad omens

**Chapter 2:**

**Bad omens**

Aziraphale fiddles with his cup while casting furtive and worried glances all around him. He doesn't usually sit in that kind of tavern.

The prostitutes lean lazily against the counter or wander in the cramped room, their gait always so suggestive, flying between the overcrowded tables and the customers collapsing under the weight of alcohol. One of them even catches the disgusted look of the poor angel and signals him to approach, waving her slender fingers whose nails she painted in a thousand shades. Confused, he can only frown and shake his shoulders to better turn his back on her.

The lively conversations gradually turn into a hubbub that will soon become deafening. The air gives out whiffs of beer, perspiration, and that acrid smell which must be that which humans link to carnal pleasures. A scent that makes them feel reckless and invites them to succumb to temptation and drag themselves up the stairs, craving for a taste of negotiable affection.

Aziraphale knows full well that these cabarets are all the rage as of late, and perhaps have always been, but he still doesn't understand why. He can't deny that drink and gluttony are his guilty pleasures - and luckily no one blames him. But this incessant comings and goings between the room and the first floor... these obscenities only concealed by thin curtains and these wheezes of enjoyment that echo behind the walls... Are the pleasures of the flesh so irresistible? And after all, why did Crowley dare set their meeting in such a dump? Is it again one of his demonic jokes? Does he really like to defile the pure soul of his friend? And maybe… maybe he also planned to spend some time with these harpies? Oh, he better not even think about it...

"Good evening, mister the head librarian."

The mellow voice of the demon strokes the ears of the angel who, as usual, jumps and almost spills his drink.

Crowley slumps heavily onto the empty stool that has been keeping Aziraphale company for almost half an hour. Aziraphale delicately stands his cup on the counter and turns to greet his comrade with a delighted smile.

"Crowley! I almost thought that this meeting was nothing but one of your tasteless jokes!"

"You know perfectly well that's not my type."

"Couldn't we have met elsewhere and not… because, I mean... You see, this place is rather…"

"I know, I know", Crowley sighs, waving his hand to order a drink. "You would have preferred a picnic by the lake Mareotis."

"I'm not quite sure I would accept to have a picnic with you, but I think beer houses are not a suitable place for two beings of our kind."

"Why is that?"

"Well... you know I truly don't mind drinking beer… but the side activities of this kind of tavern embarrass me.

A raucous laughter escapes the demon's throat before he swallows his beer in one go. He shakes his head, an amused smile floating on his lips, and he wipes the foam at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

"None of these women will soil your celestial body."

"Well, I don't know how I'm supposed to welcome this remark."

"Just stop thinking and have a drink."

The ginger raises his arm again so that their cups are again filled to the brim. His friend cracks a faint smile, somewhat taken aback by their first exchange of the evening. He should have become used to it after all these centuries spent alongside this singular creature of Hell. However, whatever he does, whatever he says and whatever he thinks, he is always afraid of committing a blunder, a mistake that could upset his friend and deteriorate their already too ambiguous relations. He's not supposed to fraternize with the enemy like he always did with Crowley. He's also pretty certain that the other angels, or at least Gabriel, are well aware of their little encounters. A conscientious angel would try to extract information from a demon, taunt him, convince him to act against the interests of his side and to serve Good instead of Evil… but Aziraphale does nothing with it. Because he just doesn't want to.

"I ordered some oysters", he continues, his fingers curled around his cup.

Extremely keen about the possibility of sharing such a meal with his lifelong companion, he pushes the plate towards Crowley and finally realises that the latter does not pay him the slightest attention. His golden eyes are lost over the crowd of young women strutting at the foot of the rickety staircase, vainly trying to arouse customers and line their pockets.

The poor angel's fears immediately surface. Is it really for this kind of fun that Crowley wanted them to meet here? To drink a few beers and then go away with a degenerate human? Or is he responsible for these poor lost souls? After all, temptation can only be the work of the Devil... Adam and Eve would sure like to confirm so.

"Crowley?" he calls, clapping his hands gently to catch his friend's attention. "Are you considering… talking to one of these girls?"

"I've already told you a thousand times that I don't like oysters."

Crowley pushes the plate towards Aziraphale and lifts his cup to his still wet lips. Abashed, Aziraphale looks down and twists his fingers. He was so happy to be able to spend some good time with his vile friend... Not only the setting of their meeting is absolutely repulsive, but if Crowley also starts to play up and become unbearable... Hopefully he will n-…

"Here, angel. This is for you."

The ginger hands him a thin scroll which he had hidden under his toga. Aziraphale hastens to grasp it. A manuscript? One more? After the huge load he seized the day before?

"Captain Hippolytos had hidden it in his cabin to prevent your minions from taking it away."

"Nobody searched his cabin?" the angel asks while unsealing the precious document. "I asked them to chec-…"

"Of course they did, but some people can be very imaginative when it's about hiding their most precious goods."

"What do you mean?"

"Trust me, you don't want to know more."

The blond shrugs and goes back to reading. Strange. What can this mysterious scroll contain? Why would the captain try to hide it? Is it an important war document? Too thin to contain erudite reflections but too neatly sealed to be some sort of love letter.

"So? What is it about?" Crowley asks, his eyes alternately flying back and forth between the oysters and the scroll.

His friend does not utter a word. He just observes the signs on the paper, his eyes wide with shock.

It's a missive.

A missive which would undoubtedly be destroyed once delivered to its recipient.

A missive that was entrusted to the wrong intermediary, in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

Aziraphale folds the scroll and hides it under his toga, holding it firmly against his chest. He gets up without even emptying his cup and walks hesitantly but hastily towards the door. Completely bewildered by this sudden change in his behavior, Crowley gets to his feet and rushes after him. Was the content of this document so scary? Or is it an important or confidential paper that must be delivered to its recipient as soon as possible?

Both men dive into the night, the sea breeze caressing their wet cheeks and leaving a salty taste on their lips. They walk a few meters in silence, towards the library, Aziraphale leading the way and tottering imperceptibly on his poor little legs.

"Aziraphale!" Crowley exclaims, catching hold of his sleeve. "Where are you going? And what about the oysters?"

"I don't really care about the oysters."

Crowley looks back to make sure no one is following them. He was almost certain that his unexpected gift would make quite of an impression but he certainly did not imagine that his companion would just run away after reading it. Is this how his consuming passion usually shows up? This urgent need to rush into his office does not seem the very sane. Is he really unable to hold a scroll calmly? This reaction could have been incredibly adorable and touching if Aziraphale's features weren't so creased.

"Please, Aziraphale", he moans, trying to stand in the way. "Tell me what's wrong. Is it because of this document?"

"How dare you ask such a question!"

The librarian continues on his way without paying attention to the implorations of his friend.

Even though the sky is sprinkled with stars at this late hour, the streets remain alive enough to prevent any kind of intimate conversation. Questions will wait. No one should hear anything. No one should see them. Their hurried departure must have already caused enough confusion and seemed too suspicious. What a lovely idea to have organized their dinner in this tavern in the company of prostitutes, brigands and mercenaries! He and Crowley obviously did not go unnoticed with their sumptuous clothes and their radiant hair. And if it turns out that a _gabiniani_ was there...

Aziraphale half-opens the panels of the heavy door and sneaks inside the silent library, the red haired demon hissing on his heels. He immediately heads towards the staircase to cloister himself into his office and be sure that everything will be safe - the scroll just like his own body.

"Crowley…" he murmurs in a hushed voice, his jaw clenched, a vein throbbing furiously under his temple. "What kind of ship was it exactly?"

"Just one of the many ships departing from Thessaly, why so?"

"What was your final destination?"

"Oh, I don't know. I already told you that I was too busy with the ducks."

The angel rolls his eyes, cursing the stupidity of his comrade who could, at least once in this damn century, make himself truly useful by doing his job properly. Besides, he would never have wished for a demon to fulfil his task, but in this instance, a minimum of conscientiousness would have greatly served the interests of both their sides.

The two men shut themselves up inside Aziraphale's office. The angel repeatedly checks the lock, his fingers working on the handle in a manic tic. The ginger stares at him with an air of utter incomprehension, frowning in a silent question. Now that their little nocturnal marathon is over, it is certainly time for him to get answers.

"Will you tell me what's going on?" he insists, somewhat annoyed but still too soft to be intimidating.

Aziraphale crosses the room to finally slump into his chair and place the scroll standing on the desk in front of him. His pale eyes get lost in the meanders of its texture, as if they tried in vain to decipher the signs through the paper. Oh, he sure doesn't need a second reading to remember what's in there. One was enough to mark his mind.

"Aziraphale?"

Crowley leans over the desk, his hands flat on the polished wood, his golden irises piercing Aziraphale's with their mesmerizing radiance. His ultimate weapon. The attribute to which Aziraphale has never been able to resist.

"Aziraphale, I beg you. Answer me."

As usual, the poor angel turns his eyes away and wrings his hands while searching for his words. His lips part several times without releasing any intelligible sound.

A silver moonbeam filters through the thin curtains floating at the windows. Aziraphale's pearly skin glows in this obscure light, giving it that angelic air that Crowley has never forgotten since their first meeting and which sometimes haunts him during his periods of deep loneliness. His forehead is wrinkled with fear and his eyes sparkle with an unusual glow, a glow that Crowley has rarely seen in these irises that are ordinarily so innocent, so candid, so enthusiastic.

Aziraphale is terrified.

"When you were on this ship... Did you... did you notice anything abnormal?" he asks in a broken voice, his throat dry, his hands clammy. "A passenger... conversations... nothing at all?"

"Well... maybe, yes, I don't know. It all depends on what you believe to be "abnormal". I know I should have been more careful, but the fact is that I preferred to get a tan. Here. We were on a large ship in the middle of the _mare_ _nostrum_, the temptation was far too strong, so I j-…

"Do you know how the captain came into possession of this document?" Aziraphale continues, his knuckles whitening as he keeps on clenching his fists nervously.

"Ah, yes, I do!" Crowley exclaims with some poorly disguised pride. "When we berthed, there was... a guy from the army, probably a _gabiniani_, waiting for us on the wharf. I heard him and Hippolytos talk about little Ptolemy. Perhaps he was looking to requisition the ship, who knows? No holds barred in this damn war."

"This paper gives off demonic reeks!" the angel responds, groping his chest. "Is this one of your wicked ideas?"

"Look, I just went around the ship after berthing and I found that manuscript. If you don't like it, give it back to me so I can sell it to someone who…"

"This document is a missive from Pothinus."

Crowley frowns a little stronger so that his red eyebrows almost meet in a thin line.

"I don't even know who that is."

"The pharaoh's regent."

Crowley's jaw drops and his lips open in a silent exclamation. Then he was not wrong, the captain and the soldier did converse about the young pharaoh. If only he had cared about listening for a few more seconds instead of... well, instead of thinking about visiting his old friend. Why the devil is he supposed to be monitoring this ridiculous war? This is far too much of a responsibility for a fool of his kind.

"And?" he articulates after swallowing painfully, the weight of his responsibilities falling down on his frail shoulders. "What does this missive say?"

Aziraphale's lips twitch in a nervous smile. He would love to believe that this evening is only a nightmare that will vanish at dawn. That the few words he deciphered have no meaning, that they were never even written or addressed to anyone.

Sadly, reality is quite different. Cruel and bitter, as it always has been and will always be for all the human beings as well as for their celestial guardians.

He nods pitifully and looks up at Crowley, again meeting his blazing gaze veiled in shared concern.

"It orders the killing of Pompey."

* * *

_Thanks for reading!_

_If you enjoyed, please consider supporting me on Ko-fi so I can keep on writing more smutty s*** for all of you, foul fiends!_

_Special thanks to my ineffable girlfriend for the amazing cover she made for this story!_

_My Ko-fi : /alec_lestrade_

_Nika Khodo's Ko-fi : /nikakhodo_

_We are self-employed artists so any tip helps! :D_

_Please note that English is not my first language. I am deeply sorry for all the mistakes that may remain._


	3. Moonlight on the Heptastadion

**Chapter 3:**

**Moonlight on the Heptastadion**

Under the moonlight, the pier seems motionless, as if frozen in time and space. The heat of the day surreptitiously gives way to a gentle sea breeze that drops a hint of salt on the lips of the late passersby. The lighthouse fire shines in the starry sky overhanging the sleepy city. This always comforting, sometimes salutary flame. These shadows dancing on the amber skin of the two celestial beings whose silent steps tread the Heptastadion.

They spent the whole day sitting in Aziraphale's office, staring at Pothinus' missive and not daring to read it again. This brand new day that promised to be pleasant, carried by a warm sun and a noticeable record of attendance. A day marred by unanswered reflections and irrational fears.

Crowley made several attempts to draw his old friend out of his thoughts by suggesting that he takes action and leaves this mishap behind. After all, neither of them knows where this letter actually came from, and neither of them was asked to concretely interfere with the current political schemes. Aziraphale has not received any mission order. Only Crowley was ordered to keep a close eye on Caesar's army while Hastur and Ligur, these rascals, follow Pompey's troops. And he can't pretend that he took his mission seriously. And because he's well aware that such irresponsibility could cost him dearly, he spent the last few hours looking for the solution that could be most favorable to them. Sadly, none of his proposals suits Aziraphale.

Return the letter to Hippolytos and let him give the order to assassinate Pompey? Out of the question. An angel will never deliberately be responsible for a murder.

Keep the letter and give Pompey a short respite? What's the point since Pothinus will sure find another way of sharing his directions - if he has not already dispatched several messengers to all the ports of the area.

Ask their superiors? What an idea! And reveal their inactivity and their inability to take decisions at the same time? Might as well throw themselves into the flames of Hell and swallow some holy water, the result would be the same.

They halt to better pay attention to the faint song of the waves desperately licking the pier. Aziraphale's gaze gets lost in the distance, where the triremes catch their breath before sailing again towards the rising sun.

"The war is coming closer... I don't like it."

Crowley lets out a weary sigh and shrugs. What else can he do? He's not enthusiastic about monitoring each single action of this megalomaniac. Especially since he has no real ability to stop him from doing harm. He could whisper a few words and tell him which boat to sink or which camp to burn, but if his colleagues catch wind of the slightest of his attempts to pacify the situation… no, he better not even try to imagine how they would make him understand that he's not on Earth to prevent soldiers from getting into scraps.

"You can still try to prevent it unless it's part of the 'super' plan", he suggests crossing his hands behind his back, his eyes lost in the vastness of the firmament. "No one will hold it against you... except whoever created the conflict in the first place. And I would like to know whose ridiculous idea it is."

"There is nothing I can do."

"Of course there is", Crowley protests with an annoyed grimace. "Doing miracles is your job. No one will stop you from snapping your fingers to save thousands of lives and preserve dozens of cities. It's up to you to intervene because I have no legitimacy to do so."

"No, I can't", Aziraphale moans, throwing a pebble into the water as if to show his indescribable rage. "Because whatever I do, whatever I try, I always fail. The only task I've ever completed successfully since I came to Earth... is taking care of this library."

"Quit your daft talk. You are very gifted in multiple areas, I'm sure you c-…"

"No, Crowley. I am a good-for-nothing, wasting my powers on futile miracles that interest absolutely no one but me."

The angel breathes a resigned sigh and looks up at the flame crowning the majestic lighthouse. He doesn't need to be lectured. His fingers have been itching for a long time and clearly showed their intention to snap and bring about the end of this terrible civil war. But he can't. He has not right to do so. Because he would never go against the Great Plan. Never.

Fraternising with Crowley is already a great sin of which he will have to wash his hands - if he manages to sever all contact once and for all, which seems inconceivable. Having the demon by his side is far too calming for him to do without. Who else would have agreed to keep him company all day long, listen to his whines, wipe out his fears and suggest all the solutions that crossed his mind, as preposterous as they were?

No one.

No one has ever done this for him. No one ever cared about his mood. No one has ever shown or feigned the slightest interest in his personal problems.

No one but Crowley.

He will never forgive him for having fallen. If they were on the same side, their situation would probably have taken a very different shape. They wouldn't have to stick with their damned agreement. Lend a helping hand if necessary and then separate until the next time... again and again... let their paths meet as events take place... cross space and time, longing for each other. Condemned to live alone.

"Aziraphale…"

A slender hand makes its way over his shoulder and gently forces him to turn around.

"Trust me, Aziraphale, I had no clue what this scroll really was and if I did, I would never have given it to you. I don't want you to worry about hypothetical events."

A nervous giggle rises from the poor angel's tight throat. Hypothetical? What could be more constraining than a missive signed by Pothinus himself? No one can contravene his orders. The sentence would be far too heavy.

"By now," he says in a panicky voice, "Hippolytos has probably already noticed that the letter was stolen."

"Nothing is less certain. His ship is supposed to leave in a few days and I believe he prefers to spend his nights in taverns rather than alone in his seedy cabin. He probably didn't notice anything, and after all... the missive was not addressed to him. He's just an intermediary."

"And what if Achillas tries to take it back?"

"Why would he do such a thing?"

"What if someone saw you stealing the missive?"

"Well, so what? I did it at the behest of the head librarian."

Realising too late the weight that his words can throw on Aziraphale's shoulders, Crowley hastens to stammer unintelligible excuses. Here he is again, sheepish and red with shame after a clumsy sentence. It almost became a habit. The more time passes, the more he struggles to filter his words despite his constant efforts.

"Aziraphale, listen... You know as well as I that we do not risk much in this whole story. The only tyrants we have to fear are our superiors, right? And we have not received any orders. Neither you nor I have any instructions to follow at the moment. No accountability to anyone. So let's continue to act as if nothing happened, alright?"

"Do you only understand how stupid what you say sounds?"

"I spent the whole day offering you solutions, alternatives, ways to get rid of all forms of responsibility! I know that there is no ingenious escape to completely get away with it. But staying in your office isn't the way to solve this issue. Pull yourself together, angel. The more you tergiversate, the worse the problems you will get. You must get rid of this missive as soon as possible. You can just put it back in Hippolytos' cabin or throw it at the bottom of Lake Mareotis, I don't care. I just want your conscience to be calm again."

Crowley removed his glasses while speaking. His golden eyes glisten in the dark, awakened by the glow of the lighthouse, and he imperceptibly leans closer while the blond is mesmerised by this so peculiar gleam.

The musky breath of the demon reaches Aziraphale's lips and creeps into his throat, triggering a sudden but discreet leap of his Adam's apple.

"And if the situation really gets worse, we could... go off together. Come back to Rome. Gallia. Greece. I don't care about the destination as long as you're safe and happy."

Aziraphale's cheeks flush with emotion as these words echo to his crimson ears.

He knows Crowley is not inherently bad. He's well convinced of the good intentions of the latter who, in the end, undoubtedly wishes more to do Good than most angels themselves. To be faire, he was not even surprised to see the demon try to get closer to him until they managed to build the foundations of a solid and sincere friendship - if they can use such a word to qualify their relationship.

Thinking about it now, it seems quite impossible for him to forge this kind of intense links with anyone else, angel or demon. No one has shown him so much affection, no one has devoted so much time to him, no one has repaired each of his blunders, no one has saved him as many times as Crowley did.

And yet they are doomed to remain enemies until the end of times.

Surprisingly enough, however, their peers still seem to believe that they keep on fighting a fierce battle during each of their excursions to Earth. It is true that their order of mission has not fundamentally changed since the very beginning. Prevent one from playing tricks on humans and thwart the plans of the Almighty, prevent the other from preventing these demonic actions... a routine that certainly does not suit them and of which they got tired before it was even set up.

If only things were so simple. If only they were masters of their own choices and destiny. Deciding the fate of a stupid letter is already far too intricate and stressful for Aziraphale, so if he must determine which path to take with his dear comrade...

"I don't want to leave Alexandria."

The demon's eyebrows curl in a pained grimace. His thin lips desperately open and let out a weak sound which escapes without being followed by an intelligible word. A fist of ice grasps Aziraphale's heart at the sight of his companion's collapse, but what else could he have answered? Even though a climate of insecurity reigns in the region, he has never been so happy. And he is certainly not going to give up on this cherished and probably ephemeral joy.

"Neither Caesar, nor Pompey, nor you will compel me to abandon my library."

Aziraphale shakes his shoulders, turns his back on his friend and leaves without a word. The bottom of his toga twirls at the mercy of the gentle sea wind and reveal his pearly ankles that the waves are desperately trying to lick.

He does not cast a single look back.

He's just leaving.

Without a goodbye, without a smile.

Crowley's gaze follows him silently. He's not even considering to go after him. What would be the point of it? He knows his angel better than anyone else and he's almost too aware of his passing little depressions. The poor boy cruelly lacks self-confidence since he caught the extent of his prerogatives. Crowley thought he could give him a hand by organizing his appointment as a librarian and thus help him to become fully aware of his abilities, to fulfil himself, flourish, become the one he always wanted to be.

To hell with that missive. It is not up to Aziraphale to decide its fate. Crowley will eventually turn things around with one of his last-minute maneuvers, as rash and stupid as it may be.

After all, these foolish creatures called "humans" don't really need a hand to ruin their future and seal the fate of the generations to come.

Aziraphale will survive them.

Powerless witness of the world's misfortunes. Blunt weapon of devotion. Innocent soul soiled by the burden of his remits.

* * *

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